From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 4

**Storm Behind Sleeps by George Orwell**

**Chapter 4**

Perhaps it was my mind instinctively shifting into survival mode, a desperate mechanism designed to shield me from the overwhelming chaos that had become my life.

I had reached a breaking point. The world around me felt like a blur, and I was utterly incapable of functioning.

In a rare moment of compassion, Zachary chose not to pursue an annulment of our marriage. Instead, he took a leave of absence from work, dedicating those two months to dragging me from one doctor’s office to another, as if he believed that professional help could somehow pull me back from the abyss.

Therapy sessions became a battleground of silence for me. I sat there, mute, refusing to share the turmoil that raged within.

As for medication? I flatly rejected it. The thought of numbing my pain with pills felt like a betrayal.

In a desperate attempt to “help” me, Zachary even resorted to electroconvulsive therapy. The experience was harrowing, the side effects brutal—my memory became a fog, and my ability to think clearly was diminished.

Art had always been my refuge, but now, my hands felt foreign, uncooperative, as if they had forgotten how to create.

Back then, the idea of recovery seemed so distant, so unattainable. I had tucked a razor blade behind the bathroom mirror, a secret weapon waiting for the moment when my father’s sentencing would finally arrive.

That was when I planned to end it all.

But Zachary, perceptive as ever, caught on to my intentions. His temper flared, and in a whirlwind of emotion, he forced my mouth open and shoved the pills down my throat.

“You think you’re still daddy’s little princess? Grow the hell up,” he snapped, frustration spilling over.

In the past, when it was time for medication, I would have sulked and stalled, playing the role of the reluctant child.

Zachary, with his endless patience, would coax me gently, “Come on, sweetheart. Just swallow, and I promise I’ll get you a candy afterward.”

But this time? There was no candy, no sweet reward waiting for me.

The moment he released his grip, I spat the pills out defiantly.

His patience had reached its limit. He loomed over me, a cold figure of disappointment.

“Look at yourself. I shouldn’t even be here,” he said, his voice laced with a mixture of anger and sorrow.

“Then leave,” I shot back, the words escaping my lips like venom.

—

He slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the empty apartment. I could hear him chain-smoking in the living room throughout the night, the smell of tobacco mixing with the stale air, creating an atmosphere thick with tension.

The following day, Quinn arrived, and the air crackled with conflict.

Their voices rose, clashing like thunder.

“Zach, you’re a decorated cop with a real future ahead of you. She’s a mob boss’s daughter! Why are you still doing this?” Quinn’s words dripped with disbelief.

A long silence followed, heavy and suffocating. Finally, Zachary’s voice emerged, low and weary, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“I took care of her for ten years. You don’t just walk away from that overnight.”

Ten years. And now, I was reduced to nothing more than an obligation in his eyes.

The argument faded into a silence that felt like a void, and soon, I could hear the unmistakable sound of them kissing, a painful reminder of what I had lost.

In the apartment that my father had bought for me, I felt the walls closing in.

In a surge of emotion, I burst out of my hiding place, rage propelling me forward as I smashed everything within reach—furniture, trinkets, and our framed wedding photo, each shattering piece echoing my inner turmoil.

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